


I Won't Let You Drown

by AngryPirateHusbands



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Drowning, M/M, Partnership, taking a dip, the scene they cut out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10046966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngryPirateHusbands/pseuds/AngryPirateHusbands
Summary: "Who do you imagine it was that dragged you onto that beach?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M just in case.

_It wasn't supposed to happen this way._

All of the sudden the world seemed to close in around them with the cruel, sobering clarity that only disaster could muster. They were no longer free men sailing over the crystalline expanses of the ocean, charting their course and allowing the breaking waves and forceful winds to propel them forward. No longer were they breathing in the hearty scent of saltwater that rode along the breeze and carried with it the sense of possibility. The promise of wealth both in fame and fortune. The assurance of prolonged stability and a future of their own choosing. No... The _Walrus_ was no longer the means through which they would snatch their freedom once and for all with labor-hardened fingers, but rather a prison. A sinking vessel on which they were not the destined "Princes of the New World" as they had been told, but were instead no better than the stinking rats that scurried about the gut of any ship.

The instant those gun ports had risen on the Spanish Man O' War, unveiling to them the sheer number of their guns, the world fell into complete and utter silence. It was stifling. Silver recalled nearly bending beneath the weight of that eerie quiet, that calm before the storm that was so unsettling it could make even the most hardened men break out in gooseflesh. Those few seconds where time itself seemed to grind to an abrupt halt, as if holding its very breath in uncertainty and anticipation. He couldn't hear the wind pulling against the sails nor the fervently whispered prayer of the man standing beside him. No, he didn't even notice his own breath as it stuttered in his chest. Yet at the same time there was but a moment, a single sliver of time, where he was certain he could have heard the drop of a single pin atop the deck.

Then, all at once, time sped back up as everything around them erupted into pandemonium. The torrential boom of cannon fire was deafening, but nothing more-so than the cracking and splintering of wood that soon followed as the _Walrus_ suffered the onslaught of their guns. The dull whistle of cannonballs whisking through the air gave way to screams as the ship all but buckled beneath them.

Silver didn't remember getting knocked from his feet, yet when he hit the deck he did so with enough force to steal the breath from his lungs. The back of his head throbbed from the impact, his pulse pounding loudly in his ears as pain reverberated down his spine. The cries of the crewmen seemed almost muted now, the man feeling each hole punched in the hull more than actually hearing it. At least briefly. Above him he saw nothing but blue sky, splinters and sparks, and flying debris. Then the white of the sails as a cannonball tore its way through the main mast. A creak cut through the air as it began to bend beneath its own weight, then the deafening snap as it finally succumbed and collapsed against the foremast.

Just like that Silver was broken out of his reverie. His mind seemed to break through the muffling barrier that had surrounded him and suddenly he was moving. Where to, he wasn't positively certain. His instinct of self preservation was one that had developed in strides during his youth, but now... Well. It was difficult to flee from certain death when simultaneously caught at the very center of the inferno. Even more-so when burdened with the knowledge that, in retrospect, it was all of your doing.

_"Sorry, had to be done."_

Everything around him only served as glaring proof of his error. Not only was he mistaken to chase after such an uncertain path, but to actually instill any faith in the plans of another, even if they were concocted by the "legend" that was Captain Flint. He shouldn't have lit the fuse of the cannon that fired the first shot. Instead, he should have simply cut his losses and surrendered with the intention of slipping away once they had returned to land. Now there was nothing. Nothing but blood and crushed wood, and the choked-off screams of fallen men. The weight of the dying sailor in his arms, whose name or duties he'd never cared to learn, was heavy as he called out in vain for a doctor. For anyone to stop the warm blood currently coating his hands. When the rush of red finally ebbed it was not from the futile efforts of a medic, and with the bitter taste of bile rising on the back of his tongue Silver let the body fall back to the deck.

_I did this._

A piercing blast filled the air seconds before the _Walrus_ gave another shudder, the deck not five meters from him exploding with a sickening crunch beneath the volley of solid iron. Men collapsed beside him, either dead or dying from their wounds. Some hopelessly cradled their split open sides or bleeding heads. Others were missing parts of their limbs. They were little more than blood and skin and bone. Silver's stomach churned. However, any brewing thoughts were interrupted as the ship began to lean sharply towards the water below. The entire vessel seemed to groan as a noticeable crack began to split across the deck. Moments later the railing opposite him was blown apart. And that's when he saw it: That unmistakable flash of copper.

The captain had just been stationed up at the forecastle, spyglass held loosely down by his side as he stared at the warship with slackened features and unseeing eyes. Now he was gone, as was the far portion of that upper deck. Instead all that remained were broken planks and smoke pillowing in the air. Silver didn't seem to make a conscious decision before scrambling to his feet once more. He didn't remember rushing to what remained of the rail, his dull and dirtied fingernails biting into the wood as he almost desperately scanned the flotsam atop the water. Didn't remember _why_. What he did recall was the strange sense of relief when he finally spotted that auburn ponytail belonging to the man among the wreckage. However, even that reprieve was fleeting as Flint disappeared beneath the breaking water.

_No._

It didn't make any sense. The captain had been treading water just moments ago. Calm, still, not desperately flailing and reaching out like some of the drowning men he had witnessed in his past. He obviously knew how to swim, so then why...? Why was Flint no longer fighting to survive? This was not the same man that inspired stories of being a demon, an immortal soul forever damned to walk the earth. Nor was he the same bloodthirsty pirate who secreted visits to a witch, a crone who would paint him with the blood of innocents to keep him safe in battle. Instead he was just a man. One whose will to live had been unceremoniously cast aside, and was now permitting himself to sink beneath the very weight of his failures as if they could be effaced, hidden, by the dark depths below.

_Trust me, there is always a way._

Silver had never placed much stock in other people. It was but one of the many lasting repercussions brought about by the harsh life he had lived, even in its early years. The majority of the children unfortunate enough to call the Home for Poor Orphan Boys theirs had been separated from their families by war, disease, or hunger. To lose someone to death's inevitable embrace certainly wasn't an easy burden to bare. But to be raised since infancy in that stinking prison of dark stone and wooden crosses, of harsh beatings followed by solemn, hollow prayers, was a hell of its own merit. To live with the knowledge that you had not been torn from your family by some twist of cruel fate, but that you had never been desired in the first place.. It was distinctly different. It left a prominent hole in one's chest; one that festered more and more with each passing day. It spread with each unwarranted beating, each night spent awake with a belly pained from hunger, or shivering alongside the other whelps when the winters were particularly harsh. 

Eventually that pit in his chest grew to the point where it swallowed him whole, and whatever traces that remained of Solomon Little went with it. The moment he was old enough, strong enough, to be free of that place he fled without so much as a single glance behind him. There was nothing there he wished to bring with him. Not his name nor what few possessions he actually had. Instead he carried with him the hard lessons he had learned over the years: That he may be a lying, worthless wretch, but he was a _good_ lying, worthless wretch. He was John. The patron saint that hid behind a warm, clever smile. The one that had survived. The one that had outlasted the others long enough to retell his stories; and so too would he spin tales with the aid of his silver tongue, until the day finally came that he was free. From thirst and hunger, from petty wages that did little more than stave off the threat of destitution. From anyone foolish enough to make him feel as though he were less than. And here he stood with that promise of such absolute freedom sinking to the bottom of the damned sea.

Silver didn't waste any time entertaining the warring thoughts within his mind before diving into the water. Unlike those few weeks ago when he was first discovered for having stolen the page, he broke through the water with relatively painless ease. Even so, the water that engulfed him was frigid. It closed in around him like a tight blanket or, perhaps more accurately, a noose. The shock of the temperature combined with the debris he struck against when he breached the surface was enough to steal his breath, turning it to little more than a rush of bubbles before his face. Silver reached out, clawing upwards and kicking in tandem until fresh air and sunlight kissed his face. That first inhale was deep, grounding, a startling reminder that he needed to hurry.

Blue eyes flitted about as he fought to regain his bearings within the chaos. The surrounding air was still thick with the sound of wounded cries and cannon fire, the rippling waves a mess of wreckage and bodies. Some surviving pirates clung desperately to buoyant remains of the damaged ship while others lay still in the water among a haze of red. Within moments Silver recognized the particular section of debris where Flint had disappeared and with renewed resolve he surged forward.

When Silver reached what remained of the banister he sucked in a sharp breath before delving beneath the waves once more. Despite the crystal clear waters that were characteristic of the Bahamas, in this circumstance it did little to assuage his efforts. The depths were all but littered with debris, both from the ship and the men who manned her. It was difficult to discern one sinking body from another. And as time slowly wore on his adrenaline began to give way to panic. As to exactly why, he was certain. At this point there was a chance of survival even without Flint. But if there was any remaining hope of still managing to recover the Urca gold, the captain would be crucial. The future he had desired for so long may have slipped from his fingers, but it was still within reach. He just had to find it.

Again Silver broke through the surface of the water. He allowed himself but a moment to fill his lungs before diving back under, this time deeper, this time with a cloying desperation that didn't exist before. He needed to find him. He _needed_ to.

Then there he was. The orange of his hair was quite muted this deep beneath the waves and the shadows cast by the flotsam, but it was unmistakable nonetheless. Silver pushed deeper and reached out farther, farther -Until finally he managed to curl his fingers around his wrist and _pulled._ Though bubbles escaped his lips from the exertion Flint barely moved an inch. It was almost as if he were froze in place, weighted down. His form was still, eyes closed, his loosened hair and coat floating about him. The _coat._ The fucking coat was weighing him down. This time when Silver yanked on his wrist he did so to draw himself closer. Lips pressed together firmly as if willing the air to stay in his lungs as Silver shouldered himself underneath one of Flint's arms. It was quite difficult to keep the man from sinking further down while at the same time trying to unburden him. Yet somehow he managed. Fingers worked quickly yet clumsily, removing his weapons belt before shrugged the coat down from his shoulders. Both seemed to hover for an instant before listing down further into the darkness.  
  
Desperation swiftly began to claw at the back of Silver's mind. He draped the captain's arm over his shoulder and gripped the same wrist with a bruising force. He kicked hard with his his legs in long, purposeful strokes, doing what he could with his free arm to help coax them upwards, though it did little to aid his effort. Every time he reached above himself for a second too long, Flint began to slip from his grasp. Yet he held fast. His lungs burned from the lack of oxygen. He needed air. Fuck. _Fuck._ Going after Flint was but a final, impulsive effort at securing the life he had always craved. It would only be fitting for him to die alongside the man during his quest towards that end. The irony of it all was almost painful.

Blue eyes squeezed shut as Silver fought against the sea that so yearned to pull them down into their depths. Until all light from the surface was extinguished, and all that remained were the skeletons of ships and long-dead sailors. His kicked harder, reaching out as he scrambled almost vainly. More and more bubbles escaped his lips as that invisible hand clutching around his chest tightened its grip. Just as his mind began to still, his vision blurring into darkness, they reached the surface. The harsh heat of the afternoon sun struck him hard, but fuck if it wasn't the best thing he'd ever experienced. He coughed the water from his lungs, his breaths coming in short and ragged gasps as he gulped at the air. He was starved for it, his throat raw from the stinging saltwater.

Silver didn't wait until he had fully regained his breath before shifting the captain's position on his shoulder. Those piercing green eyes were still closed, his features slack but unnatural still. At the very least the color yet remained in his cheeks. While he wasn't a doctor, far from it, he gathered that was a good sign. Silver hefted Flint until he partially over his back for that his head remained above the water. Though this certainly pushed him downward in a way that forced his breaths to come from bobs of his head above the water, it would have to do. If Flint didn't survive, this entire endeavor would have been for naught. And Silver was anything if not stubborn. Fingernails dug into the man's arm as he began the slow trek towards the coast. Even though the cannon fire had finally ceased it provided very little comfort. There was still a warship on the water, and one whose men would certainly start searching for survivors to cut down. In short there was still no guarantee that they would survive long enough to see morning.

These thoughts were abruptly cast aside. He needed to focus; on the kick of his legs, his intermittent gasps for air, the warm weight against his back. But more than that his sights were set on the sandy beach that was slowly yet surely drawing closer. The clusters of debris began to thin out, and only then did Silver begin to take note of the others that had survived. Some he recognized, others he did not. Fortunately, none of them had Dufrasne's scowling face. Yet even if they had, they were not his focus.

The moment Silver stepped foot on the soft, slippery sand beneath the water, it felt as though an unbearable weight had lifted from his chest. He secured his hold on the captain before dragging them further inland. As expected, this became increasingly difficult as Silver began to shoulder more and more of the man's weight. The moment they were finally free from the water he allowed Flint's arm to slip from around his shoulder. The man slumped down motionless against the sand and Silver collapsed beside him. He coughed more water from his lungs before finally,  _finally_ managed to catch his breath.  
  
" _Fuck_ ," he rasped after a long moment. Just briefly Silver allowed his eyes to slip closed and reveled in the warm breeze that brushed against his face. Even the course sand that clung to his skin and hair provided its own unusual comfort. Silver slowly pushed himself up onto the sand, his knees digging into the shifting ground as he turned Flint onto his back and stared down at him. Blood was still weeping from the bullet wound in his shoulder, but first things first. With an ear pressed close to his chest he listened for a heartbeat. It was a dull, faint sound, but at the very least it was something. When he withdrew, however, he was better able to notice the lack of any rise and fall of his chest. A frown pulled at the corner of his mouth and he expended a hand to hover just above Flint's parted lips. Nothing... He wasn't breathing.

"Fuck," Silver swore again, this time louder. He must have swallowed too much water.. He looked about wildly in search of the brunette he knew was the doctor. There were many men still dragging themselves onto the beach, but none of them were the one he was searching for. "Fuck." Silver quickly pushed Flint over onto his side before aiming a swift strike between his shoulder blades. Nothing. He tried it again. Still nothing. Again... The next time he struck against his back he did so with his entire fist and forearm. A rough, ragged cough  finally escaped the man as he convulsed, his body forcing the seawater from his lungs. With a heavy sigh Silver sat back on his heels. He wiped the sand from his forehead almost wearily until the violent coughing ceased.

Silver eased the man onto his back, relief washing through him as he watched the way his chest now rose and fell with each steady breath. He didn't hesitate before tearing away the white linen of the captain's sleeve. He wiped away some of the blood before doing his best to fashion a makeshift bandage. For the most part the worst of the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Who knows, if they were lucky they both might survive this ordeal after all.

When he heard the cock of a pistol he was pulled from his thoughts. The last time he had heard it, it was from Dufrasne's gun which he had aimed at the captain at the start of his mutiny. Now when he glanced up, it was pointed directly at him. The only thing he saw past the barrel of the pistol was the sharp glare aimed at him from over cracked spectacles.

_Fuck..._


End file.
